Hard Stop (20 page)

“Money doesn’t suck. Not having money sucks. Using money for stupid things sucks.”

“Like the time you bought
tropicalbirds.com
at fifty bucks a share?” said her father, sliding a chair into the conversation. “Don’t get me wrong. Dotty’s a hell of a stock picker.”

“Not really,” said Dorothy, though clearly pleased with the compliment. “I’m just a mid-cap index kind of a girl with a taste for the occasional social-conscience buy. Which do very well, by the way, most of the time.”

“There’s so much about the world I don’t understand,” I said with deepest sincerity.

“You don’t think we could live on what comes out of the till, do you?” Hodges asked me as we watched Dorothy disappear back into the kitchen. “A restaurant’s a cash business. If you play it right, you get to hold the suppliers’ money just long enough to put it to work without pissing ’em off. Dotty’s been floating the delta since she was in high school.”

Back when I was married and had a regular paying job I handled all the family finances. My wife Abby resented this, and from this remove I can see why. It was an implicit insult
to her financial acumen, entirely untested and perfunctorily rejected. I wasn’t a bad money manager but I wasn’t exactly Warren Buffett, or Angel Valero. I was exactly like my father. Afraid to let the money out of my sight and have it all taken away like in the Depression, thirty years before I was born.

So what did I do? Lost it all anyway.

“You can’t know everything, Sam,” said Hodges. “That’s what we have trust for. To fool us into giving ourselves over to specialists who know more about something than we’ll ever know even in a thousand years.”

“You can trust Dorothy.”

“That’s what we have children for.”

On the way home I called and left a message for George Donovan. I told him Mason Thigpen and the people at Eisler, Johnson were aware I was nosing around about Iku Kinjo. They had no reason to suspect anything but the obvious—that finding her body had drawn me into the case. I said I thought things were going to heat up, but there was no need to worry as long as he played it tight to the vest, something he surely knew how to do.

I was glad to leave a message. If I reached him directly I didn’t know what he’d say. This really wasn’t up to him anymore, and while his secret would die with me, I didn’t need the interference.

When I got to the cottage I found Amanda and Eddie sleeping on the screened-in porch. Eddie was on the braided rug and Amanda was face down on the daybed, still dressed and snoring. Likely a performance piece meant to undermine my tendency to idolize.

I poured my nightcap ration and sat at the pine table to
watch her snore. Seeing that I’d abrogated my rightful place, Eddie jumped up on the daybed and lay next to her, settling himself down with a puff of breath through his long snout.

I went back to Adam Smith, thinking I ought to write a book like this of my own. Call it
The Wealth of Undeserved Blessings
.

J
OE
S
ULLIVAN WAS WAITING
for me on the front walk that led up to Bobby Dobson’s group rental on Vedders Pond. It was only seven-thirty in the morning, but the day was already heavy with humidity. Unusual for September, but the weather had been nothing but unusual lately, so we were used to it. Sullivan wore olive drab safari shorts and heavy hiking boots, a black shirt with a half dozen pockets, a black Yankees cap and sunglasses. And a black leather shoulder harness securing his regulation Smith & Wesson .38.

The perfect plainclothes disguise. Who’d ever guess he was a cop?

He had a headset around his neck with a cord leading to a little black box hitched to his belt.

I had the coffee. A Viennese cinnamon for me and a double latte for him. So much for working-class sensibilities.

“You’re recording this?” I asked him.

“Digital, baby. Cheaper than a steno.”

“I’ve got one of those. Amazing things. Tell me when to keep my voice down.”

“You’re here as a witness. Totally legit. I cleared it with Ross.”

I followed him to the front door where he told the recorder we were cutting the yellow tape and entering the building. Just inside was the living room, now cleared of newspapers and magazines and covered in multicolored fingerprint powder. Also strewn about were little yellow cones with black numbers.

“Riverhead’s been busy,” I said.

That was where the Suffolk County forensics lab was headquartered. According to Sullivan, they were twitchy with paranoia after blowing a famous case, bringing on a huge lawsuit and a savaging on
60 Minutes
. Ross was one of the few officials who stood up for them in the press, earning the DA’s fury and the lab’s permanent devotion.

“Is this suicide thing their idea?” I asked.

Sullivan scoffed and flicked off the recorder.

“Veckstrom. The paper said it was ‘an anonymous police official,’ but who else would say the killing looked like a classic jingo thing.”

“
Jigai
. Ritual suicide practiced by Japanese women.”

“Practiced, huh? Not many chances to get it right.”

Sullivan picked out a comfy spot on the sofa and peeled the plastic lid off his latte. He pulled his case book out of his pocket and flipped through the pages while he listened to me talk.

“The problem is,
jigai
involves slitting the throat, severing the jugular and bleeding out,” I said. “This knife was shoved straight up into her skull. Even Veckstrom should know that details matter in these things.”

“That’s what Ross told me, the only other guy in
Southampton who knows about this shit. Though the press leak might’ve been his idea in the first place. Not bad if the perp thinks we’re barking down the wrong trail.”

“So you think it’s a wrong trail.”

Sullivan looked up from his case book.

“Riverhead thinks it’s the wrong trail. The knife was jammed up through the soft tissue of her palate, then into her brain. Very accurate. Or very lucky. Especially given the girl’s blood alcohol level, which was a point above sloshed. There were also defensive marks on her throat, so the fatal thrust wasn’t the first try.”

“I didn’t see that,” I said.

“You wouldn’t with all the blood.”

“None of which was on the bed. That I did see.”

“That’s because the body was moved there from somewhere else,” said Sullivan. “They thought somewhere in the house, because it happened shortly after death. And they were right. There’s a blood trail from the patio under the deck to the bedroom. Good cleanup job, but God Himself can’t escape luminol.”

“Or Herself.”

Sullivan scowled at me and flipped off the recorder.

“I can never tell if you’re serious.”

“Assume I’m not, as a rule of thumb.”

He talked some more about the crime scene, sharing some of the assumptions and conclusions Riverhead had come to based on forensic science, a subject I never tired of. Though my curiosity always led back to the more complex and less easily divined part of the equation, the people.

“So what was Bobby Dobson’s opinion of all this?”

He studied me unhappily.

“That would be confidential information concerning an official homicide investigation.” He flipped off the recorder.
“Do I need to tell you how happy my wife would be if I blew my pension?”

“Very?”

“Sharing forensic reports is one thing. Revealing confidential statements from potential suspects another.”

“You don’t have to if you don’t want to,” I said.

His face fell a little.

“Not saying that.” He went back to his book. “I’m recalling from my notes, but I think I got the main points.” He cleared his throat. “Dobson stated that the victim had been staying full time at the share since about mid-August. He claimed to know nothing about her motivation for leaving her employment other than what he called burnout, though he wanted it clear that this was his opinion and nothing about this was ever expressed to him by the victim or anybody else. Dobson was the only renter who was in the City during the week. He said the others had summer gigs out here. Carl Brooks and Sybil Shandy at Roger’s, and the other Brooks, Elaine, at the Varick Gallery.”

“What about Zelda? Zelda Fitzgerald?”

He looked through his book.

“Nothing on Fitzgerald. He did say others would come and go during the summer, though he couldn’t remember all their names. I got a note to go back at that if we need to.”

“Okay.”

Sullivan leaned back on the sofa, dropping his boots on the coffee table and taking a sip from his latte.

“Damn, that’s great shit,” he said. “Almost makes you stop hating yuppies.”

“Speaking of which.”

“Right. Dobson said the victim would spend the week basically hiding out in her room. He’d see her on weekends
and try to get her to go out and get a little fresh air. Have a little fun. Sometimes successfully.”

“So they were dating.”

Sullivan shook his head at me.

“Couldn’t quite get that one nailed down. He said they were sort of seeing each other. But the way forensics tells the tale, if they were getting it on, it wasn’t here.”

“So you got some good prints?” I asked.

Sullivan took another sip of his latte before flipping ahead in his case book.

“We have prints from the victim, Iku Kinjo, of course,” he read. “And Robert Dobson, the principle leaseholder, which we got off a soda can during the interrogation. Also Carl Brooks and Sybil Shandy—IAFIS had the prints off a lewd-ness charge. We got a copy of their file. Nice mug shots. Then we have Unknowns A, B and C.”

He looked at the recorder to make sure it wasn’t running.

“Remarkably, the only prints from the witness who discovered the body were a perfect set on the front door.”

“Witness efficiency is definitely on the uptick.”

He put the recorder back on.

“Any ideas on the mystery guests?” he asked.

“Elaine Brooks, Carl’s sister, and Zelda Fitzgerald are two. My guess is the owner’s number three.”

Sullivan went back to his case book.

“John Churchman. Lives on a boat at Hawk Pond. Inherited the house from his parents, who built it in 1972.”

“There’s an accountant in town with that name. He has an office next to Harbor Bank.”

“That’d be him. He’s been cooperative, so it shouldn’t be hard to get elimination prints.”

I looked around.

“So everybody’s prints showed up in the common areas.”

“Correct again. Be a surprise if they didn’t. Let’s go upstairs and see what other nifty things we found.”

Before he could stand I asked him where everybody was when Iku was killed. He sat back into the sofa.

“According to Dobson, Carl Brooks had returned to the City as planned after Labor Day. As did Elaine Brooks, who works at the Varick Gallery’s other place on the East Side. Sybil Shandy is still at Roger’s till Christmas, when they close for the season, but left the rental when Carl moved out. She’s got a place above the restaurant.”

“You’re talking to her?” I asked.

“She’s on the list.”

“So Bobby and Iku had the place to themselves.”

“At least on the weekends. During the week she was by herself. Can we go now?”

I followed him up the staircase to the balcony that led to the bedroom doors. He waved me into the first room.

“Here we have Robert Dobson,” said Sullivan, “as identified in testimony and corroborated by careful investigation.” He held up a Dopp kit with the name Robert K. Dobson in gold leaf on the side. “This is his bedroom, which he apparently shared with Unknown A.”

“Not Iku.”

“Unless she wore surgical gloves. Knowing what goes on in these group rentals, I wouldn’t be surprised.”

“Who’s next door?” I asked.

“Carl and Sybil, the drunks pulled naked out of a fountain in Las Vegas two years ago.”

“I thought that was Zelda’s trick.”

He looked at his book.

“I told you. Nothing here about a Zelda.”

“Look in the evidence room for a
New Yorker
magazine with her name on the label. The prints will match one of the
unknowns. When you’re ready to confirm with the actual girl, I’ve got her address.”

He frowned down at his book as he jotted down the tip.

“They shoulda seen that already.”

“What about Elaine?” I said. “Did Dobson say he was living with Elaine?”

He flipped through some more pages.

“Quote: ‘Elaine and I have been off and on for years. But we’ve always been friends. You wouldn’t understand.’ I love that shit. You wouldn’t understand, you dumb fucking Ivy League–deprived cop.”

“Condescension’s on the Princeton curriculum.”

He flicked the backs of his fingers under his chin. “Fungu to Princeton.”

“Any other prints in Dobson’s room?”

“Just him and A. We checked the sheets, too, by the way, and got all the usual goodies. Also not the victim’s.”

I walked back onto the balcony and looked down at the living room, trying to see the players arrayed on the broken-in furniture. I tried to imagine who was sitting with whom. I shut my eyes and listened for their conversation, but I didn’t know enough to hear.